


heartlines

by emazings



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emazings/pseuds/emazings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She leaves him an envelope of photographs on his porch. Some are out of focus, and others don’t make sense, but they sit heavy on his doorstep the same way they sit in his heart. // bellamy and clarke through a series of photographs</p>
            </blockquote>





	heartlines

**Author's Note:**

> au, modern-day setting. title inspired by heartlines by florence and the machine 
> 
> disclaimer: the 100 doesn’t belong to me, and neither does bellamy blake

She leaves him an envelope of photographs on his porch. Some are out of focus, and others don’t make sense, but they sit heavy on his doorstep the same way they sit in his heart. Bellamy goes through all of them, and after a while it’s clear that it’s another batch of photos from Clarke’s ratty old film camera.

And it shouldn’t hurt, it shouldn’t, but it does anyway.

He leaves them scattered on his desk, wishes he could get rid of them, wishes he could rinse the feel of her off his skin.

..

..

the first photograph:

This one is in perfect focus, black and white and a landscape. It’s the forests behind her house, and he can imagine it. He can see her back pressed up against a tree, her hands in his hair, her laugher filling up the empty space in his heart.

She liked to ruffle his hair and lean against his shoulder and he liked to bury his face in it, he liked to revel in the fact that her hair smelled like oranges and mint. Bellamy could have written stories on the skin on her back about that place - shadowy lights, hushed voices, and gentle winds.

It’s a good photo, the lighting is perfect, and Bellamy is almost positive that it’s her favorite out of the batch. If he knows anything, he knows that Clarke will find a beauty even he can’t see in it.

(But all he can see is her, and that’s enough beauty for him.)

..

..

the second photograph:

The next one he pulls out is blurry and overexposed; half the photo is all white, and the other half is barely distinguishable. He thinks he sees the table at the diner, and half of Octavia’s face.

There is no specific memory of this photo, mostly because it felt like the three of them were always at the diner, and Clarke always had her camera out.

The waitress knew them all by name, knew O’s order by heart. They would always sit at a booth, Bell and Clarke on one side, Octavia on the other, and the milkshakes they ordered would be passed around, until they all forgot which one was theirs.

There are smudges all over the photo, like Clarke had run her hands over the negative too many times, so he keeps it and fools himself into thinking she did it because she missed him just as much as he missed her.

And he misses her a lot.

..

..

the third photograph:

It’s too dark, but if he squints, Bellamy can make out his face, mouth open in laughter, hair tousled.

If he closes his eyes, he can see Clarke laughing with him, adjusting the settings on the camera, clicking, once, twice, three times.

There’s a white block behind his face, glowing slightly, and he suspects that this was right outside her house, stars out, sun put away. Bellamy hasn’t been to her house in ages, since the (he cringes) breakup. But the path up to her doorway is still memorized, landmarked with clasped hands and one-armed hugs.

..

..

the fourth photograph:

It’s taken selfie style, and she is smiling at the camera and he is smiling at her and her eyes are so bright she looks like the sun. It’s like every other cliche picture in films and TV shows, but he loves it just the same.

It makes Bellamy’s fingers itch for a pen and paper, to write down an already written love story about a girl and a boy and a love so simple they got lost in it. They are both artists, but Bellamy’s art is words bled into paper and ink smeared on his hand.

He used to write stories on the back of her prints in ballpoint pen. Dumb little things to make her smile, and maybe it’s out of habit, or maybe out of longing, but _fuck_ it’s been months since he’s even seen one of her photos, so he writes all over that photo. It’s an apology and a love note and something else entirely, and it’s most definitely the most honest think Bellamy has ever written.

And it hurt to write it.

It hurt.

..

..

He goes through every single photograph, and he picks his favorite and writes on them, and then he steals Octavia’s polaroid camera and takes a picture of his bed, messy and distinctly lonely.

_My bed feels empty without you in it. My life feels empty without you in it._

He returns them all in the same envelope, and he tucks the polaroid in the front. He writes I’m sorry on it over and over until it covers the entire front of the envelope.

..

..

She’s home when he gives it to her, and she asks him to come inside. He gets to watch her face as she goes through them all, and he imagines that he looked a little like that when he saw the photographs too.

When she’s done she pushes him off his spot on her couch, and in that big white house, they fall back into each other.

They look at each other and say, in unison, “That’s what you get for breaking up with me.”

..

..

The last photograph:

She doesn’t take this one, somebody else does. Wells or Lexa or one of them, but it’s their favorite. Clarke is in a long white dress, and Bellamy is in a nice suit, and the rings on their fingers shine like stars.

It’s not their first dance, or anything like that, just Bellamy and Clarke standing near the bar. His arm is slung over her shoulders, and her head is tucked into his neck, and he swears, she’s glowing.

Bellamy has never seen himself so utterly happy before, so he makes a copy of the photo, then another, and another, until they have so many that they could fill a photo album with those photos.

He writes a story on every one.


End file.
